The Real Boss Was His Neglected Wife

Madel Cerda

Mafia | Completed

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I was putting my signature on the invoice for the Gulfstream G650 when my husband snatched the boarding pass from the folder and handed it to his mistress. "You're taking the commercial flight out of JFK," Jackson said, daring me to challenge him in front of his security detail. "Amber needs the privacy. She gets air sick." I looked down at the crumpled ticket he had slid to me. Economy. Middle seat. Three layovers. Then I looked at the sixty-million-dollar bird I had leased specifically so his crime family wouldn't get slaughtered on the highway by their rivals. "Amber is fragile," he whispered, his breath smelling of the expensive scotch I bought. "She carries the future. You just carry the checkbook." My mother-in-law was already on board, sipping the vintage Dom Pérignon I had curated, refusing to look at me. They treated me like a glorified ATM with a medical degree. They forgot that five years ago, when the Feds froze everything, I was the one who bought their lives with a five-million-dollar tribute. They forgot that the hand that writes the checks can also close the account. As the engines roared to life, leaving me stranded on the tarmac, I didn't cry. Surgeons don't cry over dead bodies. I pulled out my phone and cancelled the Uber he had called for me. I wasn't going to the airport. I was going to the safe to retrieve the "Blood Contract." The five million dollars wasn't a gift. It was a callable loan. And the collateral was everything. I dialed my lawyer. "Burn it to the ground."

Betrayal Revenge Mafia Mafia Revenge

Chapter 10

Yesterday 23:22

Chapter 1

I was putting my signature on the invoice for the Gulfstream G650 when my husband snatched the boarding pass from the folder and handed it to his mistress.

"You're taking the commercial flight out of JFK," Jackson said, daring me to challenge him in front of his security detail. "Amber needs the privacy. She gets air sick."

I looked down at the crumpled ticket he had slid to me. Economy. Middle seat. Three layovers.

Then I looked at the sixty-million-dollar bird I had leased specifically so his crime family wouldn't get slaughtered on the highway by their rivals.

"Amber is fragile," he whispered, his breath smelling of the expensive scotch I bought. "She carries the future. You just carry the checkbook."

My mother-in-law was already on board, sipping the vintage Dom Pérignon I had curated, refusing to look at me.

They treated me like a glorified ATM with a medical degree. They forgot that five years ago, when the Feds froze everything, I was the one who bought their lives with a five-million-dollar tribute.

They forgot that the hand that writes the checks can also close the account.

As the engines roared to life, leaving me stranded on the tarmac, I didn't cry. Surgeons don't cry over dead bodies.

I pulled out my phone and cancelled the Uber he had called for me.

I wasn't going to the airport. I was going to the safe to retrieve the "Blood Contract."

The five million dollars wasn't a gift. It was a callable loan. And the collateral was everything.

I dialed my lawyer. "Burn it to the ground."

Chapter 1

Dr. Hailey Hogan POV:

I was putting my signature on the invoice for the Gulfstream G650 when my husband snatched the boarding pass from the folder and handed it to his mistress.

"You're taking the commercial flight out of JFK," Jackson said, his voice flat, daring me to challenge him in front of his security detail.

"Amber needs the privacy. She gets air sick."

The pen in my hand didn't tremble.

My heart didn't stutter.

But the air in the hangar seemed to drop twenty degrees.

I looked down at the crumpled ticket he had slid across the clipboard to me.

Economy.

Middle seat.

Three layovers.

Then I looked at the jet.

It was a sixty-million-dollar bird I had leased for the weekend specifically so the Dorsey Crime Family wouldn't get slaughtered on the highway by the rival Russos.

"That creates a security vacuum, Jackson," I said, my voice clinical.

It was the exact tone I used when telling a patient their tumor was inoperable.

"I am a high-value target. If the Commission finds out I'm flying commercial without a detail, they will take me just to get to your father."

Jackson laughed.

It was a dry, hollow sound.

He adjusted the cuffs of his suit-a suit I bought.

"You're tough, Hails. You're the Stitcher. You can handle a little exposure."

He stepped closer, looming over me.

He smelled like expensive scotch and the weakness of a man who inherited a crown he couldn't hold up.

"Amber is fragile," he whispered, leaning down until his breath brushed my ear. "She carries the future. You just carry the checkbook."

The disrespect wasn't a slap.

It was a bullet.

Clean.

Through and through.

Behind him, I saw her.

Amber Compton.

She was standing by the stairs of the jet, wearing a white cashmere coat that didn't just look like the one missing from my closet-it was the one missing from my closet.

She waved.

A tiny, manicured wiggle of fingers.

Cornelia, my mother-in-law, was already on board.

She was settling into the cream leather seats, sipping the vintage Dom Pérignon I had personally curated for the flight.

She didn't look at me.

She never looked at the help, unless she needed money laundered or a bullet dug out of her son's shoulder.

"Go on, Hailey," Jackson said, checking his Rolex. "Don't miss your connection. It's a long drive to the airport."

He turned his back on me.

He walked toward the mistress who had abandoned him five years ago when the Feds kicked down the door, and who had only returned now that the accounts were full again.

My accounts.

My money.

My blood.

I watched him place a hand on Amber's lower back, guiding her up the stairs as if she were made of glass.

He didn't look back to see if I was safe.

He didn't check if my detail was in place.

He violated the first rule of the marriage.

Protection.

I stood on the tarmac, the wind whipping my hair across my face.

The engines of the Gulfstream roared to life, drowning out the sound of my marriage finally, inevitably, breaking.

I didn't cry.

Surgeons don't cry over dead bodies.